The following is a narrative fictional piece based on factual events.

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I’d never been there before. To Philippe Park. I was invited by a colleague to attend his church’s barbecue in celebration of Memorial Day. I admit that I was reluctant at first. Not due to the religion or the fact that it was going to be held at noon when I’m usually a night owl…but because of my agoraphobia. While I accept that I do have a slight case of agoraphobia, I told myself that I wouldn’t let it hold me back from such experiences. So I went.

It was a beautiful day around noon that day. The sun was up but the heat was still manageable. There was a cool breeze rustling through my white cotton button up shirt. The sky could’ve been better. The clouds seemed smeared not painted, but the distinction between the blue sky and the white clouds were distinct, so I enjoyed it nonetheless.

The National park lay on the banks of the western waters of Safety Harbor, a northern extension of Tampa Bay. While the saltwater and the rare sightings of manatees were certainly a worthy attraction of the park…in my opinion the highlight and most noticeable feature of the park are its majestic Spanish moss trees. I’m a history buff, you see…Pulling up to the parking lot and taking a look around, I could tell from the winding serpent branches that stretched out in all directions that they’ve been around for generations. It’s weird…I love historical landmarks when it comes to nature, but feel quite the opposite when it comes to manmade landmarks…like when it comes to buildings, I prefer newer constructions over the older.

Greeting my colleague and his wife at the barbecue made me laugh on the inside. When I walked up to them, already in the line for grilled burgers and hot dogs, they seemed surprised. I told them that I would be coming, but I suppose they just weren’t expecting me to show up one way or the other. Still… they embraced me and introduced me to a few bystanders within proximity whose curiosity I had peaked.

Agoraphobia…I hate that it has the suffix of phobia because I’m not afraid. Just nervous and anxious. Being that I’m well over six feet tall and at one point used to be borderline obese, I still carry the paranoia that I’m always being watched. From a spectator’s point of view, my condition is similar to a formerly abused dog in a new surrounding. My voice shuttered and I struggled to release the words that I was trying to say. As I reached for the hot dogs and hamburgers, my hands and fingers rattled as if I had Parkinson’s. Not fear… It didn’t look cute and I didn’t feel special because of it. It annoyed the hell out of me, and I had to suppress the frustrations I had with myself. But the sensation didn’t last long, thank god. Once I got myself situated, seated and relatively out of the open…I could calm down. I could focus on being sociable.

Being that it was a church function, I felt obligated to inquire into the group’s religion, their beliefs and how they came to find their way to that particular organization. My colleague caught me twice staring off in deep thought. I’m still working on handling my facial expressions because I have large eyes and it’s easy to read my mood. I didn’t mean to be rude or draw in curiosity from my perplexed look, but rather, I find it’s important to digest such information on the spot so I can ask more questions while I still have the people there in front of me.

In the end, the group won me over and I had made up my mind to check out their next service. Not sure what to expect really. But I am a religious person. And more so, I’m a philosopher. What philosopher would turn down an open invitation to learn a new system of thinking, a new theology…I can’t wait.

After sitting with my hosts for a little over half an hour, the inner child in me compelled me to get up and walk around. Such a beautiful place…People get on airplanes and travel all over the world in search for adventure. The amazing thing about Florida is that there are so many untapped places for me to explore. So explore I did.

Bleeding Heart – An informal label applied to someone regarded as excessively sympathetic, of having sympathetic without warrant.

I have a lot of female cousins on my mom’s side of the family. I have all brothers, but a lot of female cousins. Growing up with my brothers…I didn’t hear condescending underhanded remarks. With us boys, we openly dissed each other in good fun. We called each other names and talked shit well until we’re rolling in laughter or coming close to blows…but hardly any condescending insults masked as blunt unbiased and indifferent statements.

One of the things I heard a lot growing up…usually from females… “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Now this…is probably one of the dumbest things you can say to someone who looks like they’re going through hard time. It’s almost as bad as telling someone you’ve outright offended, that you’re “sorry they feel that way.”

If someone is worked up about something. Or if something is obviously weighing heavily on the person’s mind. For you to tell them, that it’s not that big of a deal is incredibly obnoxious and inconsiderate. While it may not be a big deal to you, it’s apparently a big deal to them. I mean…it’s written on their faces for craps sake. The lack of insight isn’t intentional, I’m sure.

That’s why I don’t get angry when I hear such statements, but rather just look at them perplexed, silently thinking to myself, “how could you say that? You must not know the whole situation? And even if you think you do, you obviously don’t understand, or lack the ability to put yourself in another person’s shoes. In which case, the shortcomings are your own.”

To get to the point of what I’m trying to say… I have a problem with carrying too much. You know how there’s the term“unrequited love”referring to how you’re in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way about you. Well, the story of my life revolves around caring about people who could careless that I care, or people with a pocket full of fucks who just couldn’t give one to me.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always been this way. About animals, about the homeless, about orphans, about people I didn’t even know. When I was 9-years-old and learned about the Battle of the Alamo, turns out that I have a ridiculous amount of care of people who aren’t even alive anymore. Don’t even get me started about slavery and the Jews in the Holocaust. Or that notorious incident in Nanjing that they neglected to teach me in public school.

For those thinking I’m sensitive or soft, let me tell you, I brood…I don’t grieve. I brood. Brooding is to think about something, often in a dark or melancholy manner. I have this um…This narcissistic belief, that no matter what…there’s always something we can do. The idea of simply accepting things as just the way they are…yeah…hahaha…not in my world. Not in the one life that I’ve been given.

And the questions I would hear in my head from my doubters when I give that declaration are usually: “Well, Rock. What do you want to do about it? What do you think you can do? Who do you think you are? You can’t control everything.”

The people who ask me those questions are completely missing the fucking point. The real question they should be asking is why do I care at all. And even if they did ask, the answer I’d give them wouldn’t satisfy them. Because the honest truth is that I just don’t know. I kills me how much I care without knowing why I care. I think its because I have this great love for human beings. But at the same time, I have a cynical view about the majority of the general public. So what gives…

Hahaha! I could go into a theory about when I look into the mirror, I don’t just see one of me, but I see five of me…but that’s for another topic.

If you’re a bleeding heart…or if someone’s giving you crap for caring too much or having too much sympathy for another or others. I tell you, that I know it hurts. It’s unpleasant, and its even worse when you’re slighted aren’t for this quality. But that’s all right. Just learn to hide how much you care and know when to share it. That bleeding heart is passion. Passion leads to motivation. Motivation leads to accomplishment. Accomplishment…just isn’t something garden variety motherfuckers can lay claim to.

“You’re right. That is your business. So I won’t worry about it. Instead, I’ll handle mine. All right? And my business is all about figuring out what the fuck happened at the Smooth Umbrella at around 10:30pm on a goddamn weeknight.”

“Because you literally puked all over the hood of my Buick!” He said, squinting his eyes and moving his chair closer.

“What? You wanna a special certificate? You want a cookie for being dragged down here? You’re an adult, princess. Get your shit together and answer my goddamn questions! And let me tell you. You better drop the attitude before I run an intoxilyzer on ya ass. Toss a DUI in your lap. Yeah! Believe me, princess. That shits hard to get off your record. Mugshots all over the goddamn internet. Good luck picking up a guy who Google searches ya ass. Try me.”

Detective Patrick James. I saw from his badge that he was a senior officer and from the way he switched it up on me, I can see why. Caucasian, but he could talk like a nigga if he wanted to. Didn’t blame him. In fact, I respected it. I don’t like talking to cops or suits but James got raw on me all the sudden. Made me smile. But if he ain’t stop waving that muthafuckin pen all up in my face, they might had to be somethin.

“Tell me what happened, Michelle. Start from the beginning, alright. Tell me what you saw.” James said as he moved a Dixie cup of coffee my way.

Caution: The following rant contains curse words and piercing ideas that will more than likely enter your subconscious and flip over table. Read at your own discretion.

ALSO, I’d like to point out that as I grow, I’m open to the fact that my opinions will probably change or extend themselves. But I still want to post them, kind of like marking my progress of thought.

More and more, I’m beginning to get the sense that my entire career as a story teller will be dedicated to tearing down the walls of hand-me-down statements you heard growing up. Those statements adults and older teens spit at you that sounded wise and mature. As if to contest them in any way would make you sound immature, childish and full of spite.

Aigoo…

What’s a hand-me-down statement? Here are some hand-me-down statements. When I read them, for some reason, I hear the voice of some stuck up self-righteous babysitter spitting them out to me…Everytime, it’s the darnest thing.

“Two wrongs don’t make it right!”

“Girls are more mature than boys!”

“You shouldn’t care about what others think!”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones…”

“Family will always be there!”

“You can’t pick and choose your family!”

“You’re not the only one in the world going through this!”

…I could go on for hours…

…Two wrongs don’t make it right…Yes it does.

If someone goes out and kills someone. They’ll be caught. Locked up. And either spend the rest of their life in prison or executed. But isn’t holding someone against their will…wrong? Isn’t execution, the act of killing someone, wrong? But the killer did something wrong. And we mask that second “wrong” as punishment. Making it…all right?

I digress…

In this world, there are these bastards…the assholes and bitches who need “problems” in their lives in order to feel like they’re living life. I’ve heard the idea before, but out of my love for the greater humanity, I refused to believe it. I thought to myself… “Who would actually want that kind of stress? Like, actually welcome it?”

The individuals I’m talking about are the ones who if they were tossed in a world where everyone treated them with respect, loved and cherished them, showed them nothing but kindness and generosity…THEIR MINDS WOULD EXPLODE! They need that conflict. And worst!!!! They don’t want to do anything about that conflict besides bitch about it!

And my dumbass actually listens to them. I actually take in what they’re saying, like a naïve little boyscout. I commiserate with them. And I don’t just say, “I’m sorry you’re going through that.” Instead, I actually put forth an effort to come up with a solution to their problems.

SOLUTIONS?

NO!!!!!

Solutions to these people are like the water to the Wicked Witch of the East…or West. Whichever one that melts.

I worry about those who may use my inventions as a blue print to carry out those incidents. Much like the movie “The Raven.” Should I not write them? It would be a bit hypocritical of me, I think. Once upon a time, I scoffed at rappers who brushed off responsibility when young kids idolized their ghetto mentality. If the day comes…I won’t brush off the responsibility. My conscience will be crushed, but I’ll continue to write regardless. If you were to ask me why, fully aware of the consequences…I’d tell you its because its worth the risk for a good story.